Thursday, February 28, 2008

Happy 7th Birthday Emma Rathbone!!!

I love you very much.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Email Etiquette, Episode Deuce

The use of exclamation points in emails has become increasingly important. You must use exclamation points so that people don't think you are depressed. When I get an email that doesn't have any exclamation points, I assume the person is mad at me, or on the verge of suicide. They just don't seem happy. A good email is a cheery email, an upbeat email, and there is only one way to let people know that you're upbeat!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (Hint, hint!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) (LOL)

Tuesday, February 26, 2008


Going to the Oscars is always fun, but this time around it was actually kind of awkward. I kept finding myself in one uncomfortable situation after another. The first thing was, I get there, and Jennifer Garner and I are wearing the same dress. We pretended not to notice, and air-kissed each other like nothing was wrong -- but while she was patting me on the back, she secretly stuck a little Post-It note right between my shoulder-blades that said, "I Love Abortions." My publicist eventually alerted me to Garner's prank, but not until after I had been heavily photographed. I knew I had to do something to get revenge, so I sauntered over to her again and, inventing a ruse, asked if I could feel the feathers on her bust to compare them to mine. Quickly I flipped my hand down into her dress and pulled her boob out, so her left boob was hanging out over the strapless top of the dress. It was hysterically funny and I felt great, but then a big crowd of people pushed toward us and one after another lined up to taste the milk of Jennifer Garner. She squeezed one drop of her precious, life-giving fluid into each celebrity's begging mouth, and half a drop into each of the photographers. The fans received no milk but were thrilled nonetheless, and everybody was basically ignoring me. So I smacked my magic stick on the red carpet and turned it into a red staircase and climbed all the way to the top. I was so envious and crazed for attention, I really wasn't thinking how much I was going to regret this in the morning. Don't you hate when that happens? I scrambled all the way to the top of the staircase, pulled out both my boobs, and screamed, "GOT MILK!? GOT MILK?!" -- trying to make some weird joke with reference to the ad campaign, which totally didn't hit any of the right notes, especially since everybody already did "have milk," - J. Garner's, milk, that is, which apparently tastes like chocolate milk, is what I heard at one of the after-parties. So people were kind of mocking me out of the corners of their eyes, and I knew I was committing a pretty serious faux pas, but I kept trying to get out of it by acting more and more ridiculous. I started repeating old Oscar night jokes, like "Oscar Count: Three 6 Mafia, one; Martin Scorcese, Zero!" Which isn't even relevant now since Marty won last year for The Departed! Oh god, it was like all my social skills just went on a writers' strike. (Pun intended.) So finally I just climbed down the staircase again, and on my way down I bumped into Marion Cotillard. She was rehearsing her acceptance speech just in case, though she never expected to win. She was like "Thank you life! Thank you love! And it is true, there is some angels in this city!" I thought to myself well, Jennifer Garner probably isn't going to be my friend anymore, but maybe I can adopt this new French gal who doesn't know any better and we can play each others' wing-women at the after-party. But then I forgot I was trying to be her friend and thought I was trying to play a prank on her so I reached into her Jean-Paul Gaultier mermaid gown and flipped her boob out. Once again, awwwkwaaard. Javier Bardem came over and started masturbating in Spanish. I was like you know what? Fuck it. The Oscars are fun, but I can't deal with this kind of high-intensity social situation. Not when I'm still getting over last night's abortion.

Friday, February 15, 2008

My Husband

My husband is a gallant wolf named Mark. He has searing wolf eyes and a robust wolf chest and thick salt and pepper fur. We live in a huge house in the new Moonshaft Estates. We have many appliances, all state of the art, and very efficient air conditioning. Sometimes we will go out onto the deck and I will watch my wolf husband’s outline against the night sky which is pearly with bulging milky ways. There are many portraits of Mark around the house. In one he is standing on a giant silver cube that is hovering over a rippling desert. We have a room called “The Eclipse Room,” and that is where he keeps all of his recording equipment. Sometimes we will sit on our white couch and listen to Genesis together. He will put his paw on my leg and I will lift it and graze it gently across my lips. We have many remote controls. We even have a remote control that controls the blinds. Sometimes I will ride Mark through pastures of pristine snow and the sky will wink at us and I will know that we are two of the cleanest individuals in the universe. Sometimes I will be by myself in our house and I will walk down our sweeping staircase and take one of the chocolates out of the little glass bowl in the foyer. I will unwrap the chocolate and place it gingerly on my tongue. I will look around our cold, expensive house with all of its gleaming white tiles. My labia will start throbbing and I will think, “Where is Mark? Where is my wolf husband?”

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Never Forget

I remember the day when they lined up all the yoga teachers, in one line, shoulder to shoulder, stretching all the way across the field, in the park. Shoulder to shoulder, standing side by side, they created a long, wavy, snaking line of yoga teachers that reached all the way from one end of the field to the other. The wavy line would undulate, but it would not disintegrate. They stayed in line, shoulder to shoulder, as requested. There they all were, all the yoga teachers: Narayani, Rumiko, Krista, Jessica, Carol, Barbara, Kira, Layla, Maya, Indigo, India, Larissa, Thalia, Ashanti, Suki, Cindy, Christie, Lisa, et cetera, ad infinitum. There were far too many yoga teachers too count. They lined them all up, shoulder to shoulder, and then they shot them all.

Tuesday, February 05, 2008

Happy Bidet

Here is a poem:

What can I do for a birthday girl like you?
Can I stage a huge party with a giant sun cake?
Each guest with a ray of light on their own paper plate?
And even gold crumbles for those who are late?

What can I do for a birthday girl like you?
Here, I’ve got this pen from Dallas,
A Polaroid of a huge cat,
And a mousepad with the Windows logo on it,
Do you want any of that?

I know I should be voting in the primaries instead of writing this poem
But what should I do?
When Obama’s so vague, and Clinton’s so shrewd
If the most important issue of the day was getting one year older
Then the obvious candidate would be you!

Happy Birthday Alena!!!!!!!!! You’re 28!!!!!!!